


Push The Sky Away

by heylittleriotact



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Love Triangles, Lucid Dreaming, Pious Trevelyan, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylittleriotact/pseuds/heylittleriotact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helene Trevelyan's self-imposed exile in Antiva comes to an end when she is summoned to stand with her dead husband's family at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Everything goes up in flames and Lady Trevelyan need not worry any longer about leaving a mark on the world.<br/>Through all this, she struggles with the realities of leadership and the power that comes with it. She has been called to unite a warring nation against a creature who would call itself a god. The best possible way to do that? Become god-like, naturally.</p>
<p>Deals with possible choices made during the Blackwall character arc. I couldn't complete that romance for a number of reasons, and I went with Cullen instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Who Were Survivors

“Get up.”

She did not.

“Get up.” The voice repeated, harsher even than before, this time accompanied with a firm kick in the ribs just as Helene recovered the willpower to push herself up on her elbows.

“Andraste save me…” She wheezed, face down in the dirt, curling into a ball.

“Ain’t gonna be Andraste that’s gonna save you, little mouse.” Scoffed the man at her side. “In fact, nothin’ is gonna save you if you don’t get the fuck up.”

Helene spat a combination of blood, saliva and dirt onto the ground. “I… I think I’ve broken my fingers. I can’t fight anymore.” Experimentally she drew the fingers of her left hand into a fist, or as close as she could before hot pain roared up her arm. She cried out and smashed her good fist against the earth.

“You keep that up, little mouse and you’ll break the other one too.” The man said, scornful amusement in his voice. “Good armor that noble purse of yours bought you, but it ain’t good enough for you to go about tryin’ to box men if you don’t know how to hit properly.” A meaty hand wrapped around the top of her uninjured arm and hauled Helene to her feet. She wobbled unsteadily, adrenaline causing upset in her stomach as her body coped with yet another heinously wrecked set of extremities. Satisfied that she wouldn’t faint, the man shoved her back roughly and lifted his dirk, ready to begin the exercise again.

“Cinaed…” She argued, her voice weak. She tucked her swelling hand against her chest like a broken wing. “It hurts… it hurts so badly. Please…” Her eyes filled with tears and she shook them away angrily, feeling ashamed of herself.

“Why did you come here?” Was all Cinaed said, not changing his stance.

“To learn to protect myself…” Helene answered, refusing to give way to the sob that dared to interrupt her.

“From?” Cinaed barked.

“From those who would seek to harm me.” She answered obediently, though a tear with stronger willpower than she broke loose and carved a path down her dirty cheek.

“Sorry, who?” He asked cruelly. “Why would anyone harm a noble little mouse?”

“Because.” She swallowed and frowned, her fine features pressing into a glare, though she did not make a move to attack.

“Because why?!” Cinaed hollered, stepping threateningly towards Helene. “You come here to learn to fight and the instant you get a scrape or a scratch or a broken bone you want to go back home to Ostwick for tea and a fucken’ salon!!”

Shoulders quaking with pent up sorrow, Helene snapped. “You know why I’m here!” She screamed in equal proportion of torment and physical pain. “They would harm me because I believe in the Maker!” She bawled, still cradling her arm. “Because I have faith in Andraste!”

“How do you know?” Cinaed sneered doubtfully.

“They killed Robyn!” She wailed, fighting the desire to sink to her knees. It was still so new… so fresh. Caught in the crossfire, he had only been near the Chantry when it exploded. He had only been trying to help other people to safety. Wouldn’t the Maker do the same? Where was the justice in that? Rage and passion had taken her husband from her.

“Robyn?” Cinaed repeated. “Who killed him then?”

“Mages.” She snarled. “Apostates.”

“You gonna stand for a buncha rat-born apostate rubbish that reckons you deserve to die for finding comfort in the Chantry? In the Maker?”

“No.”

“You gonna let them catch you unawares like your dear sweet husband and do you like they did him?!”

“No.”

“You gonna cry when they break a couple of your bones too?!” The enormous man stepped forward and rewarded Helene with another shove. “You gonna give up and die when this war truly breaks loose?! I promise, little mouse, you’re gonna lose a lot more than your fucken’ husband in the days to come!”

Fingers ached, tingled and throbbed, swelling inside armored gloves.

Her hair hadn’t been washed since she arrived in Antiva City. Her skin was painted with bruises and engraved with healing scars and poorly set bones. Her face had taken on a sun-kissed, hollow look and it was hard to believe that the reflection that dwelled in the mirror belonged to a twice betrothed, once married Trevelyan. She ought to be fat with child, not swinging knives around with a cutpurse.

The face did belong to the aforementioned Trevelyan though. The cutpurse had taken her in almost a month earlier, willing to teach her the benefits of swinging knives.

She bore a curious affection for the man: An animalistic longing to be his equal. He was naught but a back-alley assassin from Starkhaven who squeaked past the law wherever he went by working (mostly) as a miner or a blacksmith.  But Cinaed had faith in her plight, and more importantly, faith in the large bag of silver she dropped on the table before him in the tavern when she first discovered him. She was under no illusion that he was a good man, but right now, she did not require one of those. It became plain to her that good men were the ones who died during blights, and were rewarded for their compassion with murder: Good was not going to get her anywhere, and it certainly was not going to keep her alive.

Helene tucked her arm closer to her, her hand hanging limply across her chest. Good fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger at her hip and the blade sang as it was released from its sheath.

“Oh little mouse.” Cinaed rumbled. “There’s hope for you yet.”

Helene’s skill grew in the months that they traveled around Antiva. It was a difficult go, but her hands eventually became callused, brutal instruments and her body became practiced at the delicate know-how of such things as breaking almost any bone in a man with a simple leverage of weight. Her footsteps were muffled out of habit, and there was never a weapon more than a hand’s length away from her fingers. Careless smiles came with ease to her lips when she first arrived in Antiva, despite what she had been through. Now her face was a daunting mask of seriousness; it was a rare sight to see her lips lift anymore. She liked it that way because smiles were given out as meaningless tokens among nobility: She understood now the value (and cost) of a smile.

“I have been summoned to Ferelden.” She said one morning, standing at Cinaed’s door in her humble clothing. The mountain of a man muttered and rolled over in bed, scratching his jaw as he gazed at her in the morning light. “I am called to be present with Robyn’s family before Divine Justinia. I leave this eve.”

“Probably for the best, little mouse.” He said, gruff and practical. “It’s time for myself to be makin’ me own way as well.”

Helene curled her fingers around the wood of the door frame that she clung to. “I — I would come with you.” She said then. “If… you only asked. I do not need to return to Ostwick… I fear there is nothing left for me there. My husband to be, I lost to the blight and the husband that was… he has been with the Maker for a year now. I am too old now to marry and with attributes such as these I fear I will make a poor bride to a noble man.” She held up a battered hand.

Cinaed stared at her from the bed. He was a man older than Helene by well over a decade, but he was handsome, if weathered.

“Don’t be stupid, little mouse.” He said finally. “You came here for a reason, an’ it sure as all hell wasn’t to follow me off the ends of the earth. You get to stand before the Divine an’ you have a chance to set things right for yourself.” He tilted his head down and winked. “An’ if it comes down to it, which it likely will if the Divine is involved, you can throw a fucker through the wall if trouble comes your way.”

“But…” she paused, searching for an argument that wasn’t feeble. “What if it all goes wrong? Where do I go then?”

Cinaed looked at her sternly, “Don’t ask such stupid questions. You’re a powerful woman. You’re a powerful woman who knows how to protect herself. Ain’t nothin’ gonna go wrong for you, little mouse.”

“Come with me then.” She said, her eyes brightening at the idea. “I’ll need an escort despite what I’ve learned. For the sake of appearances, as it were: You could be my guard.”

Helene could count on one hand the amount of times she had ever seen Cinaed smile properly over the course of the past year, but he did so now. He practically beamed at her. In all honesty, it was rather terrifying.

“It’s time for me to be going, little mouse.” He said, shaking his head. “Not a bloody chance I’m gettin’ dressed up in fancy armor, swannin’ around you all day and callin’ you _My Lady_ ; that’s not for me.”

Helene felt her own smile slide off of her face, replaced instantly with a familiar feeling stare as she crossed the room and sat on the end of the bed.

“Perhaps one day you’ll stop running.” She said, all seriousness now.

“There’s steel that needs working in places other than Ferelden.” Cinaed said, quantifying the intensity of her gaze with a proper glower of his own.

Helene gazed defiantly into the ruddy face of her tutor. She was a grown woman and a widow; she could feel whatever the fuck she wanted to.

“Steel.” She repeated quietly. “Yes.”

She stood and strode from the room, her skirts sighing with each lovely stride, aware that Cinaed would be gone by the evening as well; a man like him was nearly impossible to track, and she knew that she would likely never see him again.

She let that smouldering ember burn in her stomach as she met her family’s escort in Antiva City and prepared herself for her return to a life that she knew could never be quite like it had been before: The time to run and hide was over: It was time to make a mark.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Sola Gratia

The muscles in her neck ached. She wasn’t sure if it was from the explosion at the Temple, or from the sturdy right hook the Seeker had thrown at her when Helene started asking questions rather than answering them. All Helene knew was that things had not gone according to plan. She kept up with the Seeker easily enough, despite the traumas she’d suffered; it was a fair guess that she had cracked her head, and there was a gash on her arm that was deeper than she was comfortable with, but she had suffered far worse during her time in Antiva.

She gazed down at the burning, slightly smoking mark on the palm of her hand; pulsating and green, it throbbed with an otherworldly light that equalled that of the brand new tear in the sky above them.

It tingled and itched, as though there were tiny clawed things living inside her skin, trying to get out.

It was also killing her, or so she had been told.

She had been promised a trial and judgement, so at present, she didn’t know what would kill her first: The mark, or a noose.

Helene buckled to her knees as her hand felt like it had been plunged into frigid water. Her entire body spasmed and she grunted as the wind was knocked from her lungs. The Seeker, blunt and unsympathetic up until this point paused when Helene stumbled and doubled back to help her up.

“Please don’t.” Helene managed to gasp. She had not been taught how to get up with the help of another person unless she planned on sticking a knife in their kidney as thanks. She rocked onto her feet and pressed on, slowed by the weight of the shackles on her wrists. The Seeker did not speak as they walked, and Helene also had nothing to say. Instead, she planned, thought of her next step, what this meant, and how she was going to move forward: _What now? What now?_

Cobblestone disintegrated under her feet and she watched men fly into the sky with dust and stone as she descended very quickly downward. She heard the Seeker cry out in surprise near her, meaning that she had fallen too. She landed hard on ice and rubble, her already strained neck protesting at yet another jolt.

She wasted little time scrambling to her feet, grateful for the grit of the ruined bridge that offered her traction on the ice. She looked up in time to see what she could only assume was a creature from the Fade rushing towards her from a corona of green light.

The Seeker was also on her feet, but she had something Helene did not; a weapon.

Helene cast around the frozen river, seeing nothing until her eyes landed on the glint of silver peeking over the cuff of the Seeker’s boot.

Predictably, the Seeker stepped forward to engage the foe, and Helene stepped back, closing the space between them for only a moment. A moment was all that she needed to duck and lift the knife out of the woman’s boot as she charged forward, warning Helene to stay back.

The creature attacked with single minded ferocity, seeming to take little interest in Helene’s lack of involvement while being drawn to the Seeker’s aggressive sword-strokes.

She negotiated the sharp little blade in her hand. It felt good to hold a knife, even one as small as this. She had insisted that she make the journey to the Temple of Sacred Ashes armed and appropriately armored. While exasperated, her father stood for her in the end, agreeing that Helene had been through much in the past year and it was only natural that she was still rattled; if being armed made her feel more comfortable, let her be armed.

She tested the sharpness of the knife on the pad of her thumb and tightened her fingers around the grip. There was something exhilarating in the tension of her muscles as her body prepared for the movement of a fight.

Her hands were shackled, but she did not need a large range of movement with her hands. Helene had been taught to fight with whatever she could use as an advantage. Moments ago she had nothing; she now had a knife and a heavy length of chain at her disposal.

She stepped forward, ready to involve herself in the scuffle, but before she could advance any, green light burst into existence from nowhere. There was the sound of crackling electricity and another shade materialized in front of Helene. The element of surprise was no use to her now, so instead she simply launched herself straight at the shade, taking it to the ground.

She straddled the creature and quickly ducked to the left to avoid a blackened, clawed hand that scraped the air in front of her face. Face set in determination, she held the flailing thing from the Fade down with a boot on its chest and pressed the cold metal chain of her shackles down across its throat. She didn’t know if this thing needed to breathe to live, but it couldn’t hurt to choke it anyway.  Its struggled flagged somewhat and she took the space of a moment to flip the knife in her hand to a combative grip and thrust the blade up into the jaw of the shade, pushing up harder when she encountered resistance from muscle and bone. She gave the blade a good twist when it was buried up to the hilt in the monstrous face of the shade.

Satisfied that it was dead, she stood and swept the blade downwards sharply, flinging away a good deal of gore, returning her attention to her original target.

The Seeker dealt it a staggering blow with the shield on her arm and Helene took the opportunity to glide in behind it as it reeled, enclosing its shoulders in her chain and dragging its back to her chest. She dragged the edge of the knife over the dry, flaking skin of the creature’s neck and did not relent when it continued to buck and struggle despite the gaping neck wound she had inflicted. The knife was too small to do the job in one cut, and for a moment she thought the foul, electrical odour of the shade might cause her to falter. It screeched and wailed and snapped its jaws that were full of rotting black teeth. Her vision swam when it rocked its head back and connected with her nose. Despite the sensation of hot blood flowing freely down her face, she muscled the creature back to her and forced its chin up with her blood slicked hand, giving her room to saw the knife across its neck once again. This time she was successful and a shower of dark blood sprayed into the air as the shade became dead weight in Helene’s grip.

“Don’t move!” The Seeker commanded while Helene lifted the chain and let the shade crumple to the ground. Helene raised her hands in the air, but she did not loosen her hold on the knife. This plainly did not sit well with the Seeker who raised her blade and took a threatening step forward. “Drop the knife. Now!”

“I fail to see how that would be the best course of action.” Helene said. “There could be more. I would hate to see you overwhelmed.”

“You don’t need to fight.” The Seeker snarled, stepping closer.

“You can promise me that there won’t be more?” Helene retorted, not backing down.

There was a wordless battle of glares for a time, and eventually the Seeker sighed and sheathed her weapon. “You’re right.” She admitted. “I must remember that you did come willingly. It would be unjust of me to leave you defenseless.”

“Too right.” Helene quipped, “I suppose that means you’ll be happy to remove these, as well?” She asked, holding out her shackled wrists.

The Seeker looked uncomfortable at the suggestion, but withdrew a small iron key from her belt anyway. “If you run I will kill you.” She stated, unlocking the shackles which dropped to the ground with a heavy clank when she was done.

Helene massaged her wrists and tucked the knife in her belt, staring at the dead monstrosity that had come from the Fade. “I believe you.” **  
**


	3. The Taste of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People keep asking me why I do things like I do.

Firelight glinted off the folded steel blade of Helene’s dagger as she drew a cloth over it with care, cleaning and polishing it with the utmost of care. Blackwall was reclined on the earth on the other side of the fire, watching her with quiet intent as she tended to her weapons. He sat up with a start when Helene’s shoulders jerked and she swore quietly, bringing a finger to her lips.

“Are you alright?”

“I think so.” She answered, sucking blood away from the stinging wound on her fingertip. “At least I know it’s sharp.” Her voice was low and quiet; it was late and Bull and Dorian were asleep. Blackwall watched as she rustled around in the pack at her feet, withdrawing a jar of poultice and some linen. A soft breeze stirred the branches of the pines around them; a gentle susurrus of tree limbs brushing against each other in the suggestion of a song. Forest lullabies, he called them.

“I’ve always wondered who taught you to fight.” He said as she set her dagger on her lap and twisted the lid off the jar. “I’m no noble but I can’t see stabbing a man in the kidneys as something that would take precedence over needlepoint.”

There was a darkness in the gaze she levelled at him.

“What’s so wrong with needlepoint?”

“Nothing” Blackwall retorted. “I’m sure you make a cracking cross-stitch. But I haven’t seen that side of your talents, have I?”

“I learned because I saw no other option at the time.” She explained, spreading the poultice over the gash on her finger. “The idea of having to kill anything revolted me until the mage rebellion started. I’m sure you’re aware that I lost a husband.”

“I had heard that, yes.” Blackwall said, bowing his head in sympathy. “He was killed in Kirkwall, right?” He seemed to catch himself and looked up abruptly. “If it troubles you, we don’t have to speak of it, m’lady.” He looked bashful and Helene spoke despite him; she was anything but hesitant to speak of her ordeal.

“He had been visiting the city. For the past few years he had been involved in  helping the Chantry assist citizens who were displaced or affected by the attempted invasion by the Qunari. He wasn’t in the Chantry when that mage destroyed it, but he was in the streets when the fighting broke out between mages and templars.” She closed the jar and tucked it back into the bag, “Robyn was a good man. I didn’t know him as well as I’d have liked; we were only married for a short time, but I like to believe that he died trying to help people. He didn’t deserve his fate. It has been said that he was targeted by a group of mages only for the Chantry insignia on his belt. I don’t know if that is the truth of it, and I likely never will.” She shook her head and tore off a strip of linen with her teeth. “I had difficulty coping with the reality of living in a world where someone might be a target for their beliefs.”

“How do have faith after like something like that? I hear you humming old hymns sometimes at night, you know.” Blackwall said, his voice quiet. “How do you find it within yourself to have faith in a god that allows such things to happen?”

“I believe we make our own choices. Good or bad, I don’t think the Maker has much say in our affairs.” Helene stated, wrapping her finger. “That doesn’t mean that there isn’t more beyond our understanding.” The rustling of Helene’s fingers brushing across linen filled the silence that had fallen. “My faith was certainly shaken at that time, and I continue to have questions, but I was more shaken by the obvious fact that I came from a noble and openly Andrastian family with close ties to the Chantry -- if rebel mages from Kirkwall were looking for targets like Robyn, it only seemed natural to assume that the fighting would spread and I would become a target as well. So I left. I fled to Antiva for a time and I learned how to keep myself safe, because I would and will be damned to die a martyr with no legacy.”

“A legacy? Is that what brought you to the conclave in the first place?”

“Actually, I was at the conclave to represent both my family and his family; the Kellars. I was there with his father, mother, and brother to relate our experiences to the Divine. All were killed in the explosion and Alsice was not yet wed: The Kellar line is finished.” She picked up her dagger again, returning to her ministrations. “I can’t help but wonder if faith is worth the cost.”

“I reckon it is where people like you are concerned, my lady.” Blackwall said, tossing another log onto the fire. “We’re all taught to believe that Andraste is humble and forgiving; you chose to take in and forgive the rebels from Redcliffe despite what mages took from you before.” He shook his head, “If that doesn’t inspire the right kind of faith in a person, I don’t know what will.”

Smiling blackly, Helene picked a chunk of dried blood out of the crossguard and flicked it into the darkness. “I didn’t forgive the mages.” She said. “I chose them solely because I’ve seen what templars do with power. I took them in because I needed them more than I needed templars -- it was strategy, not philanthropy.” She looked up at Blackwall and it occurred to him for the first time exactly how much she had lost in Kirkwall. _She should be happily married, cradling a babe on her lap… not a dagger_. “Is it wrong that every time I pass a group of them in the courtyard, or grant an audience to one in my office, I wonder if I’m looking at my husband’s killer?”

“Well if that’s your attitude, what of Dorian and Solas? It’s impossible to get you and Dorian to shut it once the pair of you start going, and you seem to get on well enough with the elf.”

“They’re not circle mages. Solas is an apostate, but he’s… not like them. He hasn’t lived a life of oppression as they have. As for Dorian, he has proven himself to me time and again. I was always taught that the mages of the Imperium were the worst sort. Blood-thirsty, violent and lacking care for anything but their own power. Dorian is none of those things. I don’t hate mages. Mages killed my husband in cold blood, but look at how they got there. Look at how different Solas and Dorian are in mindset than these circle mages. Something is fundamentally broken within the system and although I do not feel comfortable around many of them, I see that they can be something more.”

“That right there is why you are a woman of faith.” Blackwall said gently. “Just promise me one thing, aye?”

“What would that be?”

“Regardless of what happens and how many people you lead and how much power you gain, promise me that you won’t forget that the mask comes off. I’ve seen you lead; you’re downright new at it, that’s for damn sure, but you seem to slip into the skin of a different woman with an effortlessness that most Orlesian nobility would kill for. Just don’t forget who you are under that skin.” He smiled at her, his warm, kind eyes crinkling around the corners. “The world would be missing out on a lot more than Andraste’s Herald.”

Helene’s hand paused at Blackwall’s last words, her fingers protected by cloth, wrapped around a lethal edge.

“Is there… is there something you’d like to say?”

Blackwall harrumphed good-naturedly. “Nothing that I would be comfortable saying if I didn’t know that bloody mage was eavesdropping.” He said, raising the volume of his voice slightly.

“I’m sorry. I simply can’t sleep over the sound of all of this sexual tension.” Came Dorian’s snide, if sleepy voice from within his tent.

Helene felt her cheeks flush and she looked very deliberately at her dagger, her focus on maintaining the item renewed.

“You think I fight well then?” She asked, changing the subject. “I have less than a year of training at my disposal. I would think that pales in comparison to an entire lifetime. I must seem ridiculous.”

Blackwall laughed quietly and took a drink from the flask of whiskey that he often broke out around the fire on nights such as these.

“My lady, I would be loathe to be on the receiving end of one of those little blades if your hands were the ones holding them.”

“You’re only saying that to appease me.” Helene said, smiling now as well.

“If it would bring a smile to your face like the one you’re wearing now, I’d say it a hundred more times.”

“Very well then.” A thin smile pulled at her lips and she carried on pulling blood away from her knives while the trees hummed a hymn.

  



	4. Be Thou My Vision

“Any god that has to demand worship sets an awfully piss poor standard, I think.” She retorted when the Elder One commanded her due deference to his power.

“I did not tell you to think, interloper.” the Elder One snarled, “I have come to take back that which is rightfully mine.” A clawed hand was thrust in her direction and Helene struggled to her feet, aware of the immediate threat in front of her and of the dragon that was panting in frustration behind her. Red light pervaded the already smoky, oily air and Helene balked at the source of the light; an ancient looking sphere, clutched by the monster.

The green mark on her hand tingled unpleasantly as the light grew stronger, more confrontational and Helene tried to pull away from the unseen force that pulled at her with more vigor with each passing moment. The tingle became a sharp burn that brought Helene to her knees once more.

She felt tears creep into her eyes and she reminded herself stubbornly of Cinaed’s challenge to her. _Are you gonna cry when they hurt you too?_

_Of course not._

“Doesn’t… appear to be working...” She managed to mock from under the unseeable weight that was crushing her.

A clipped scream broke from her lips when the horror grasped her wrist and hauled her off the ground. She twisted in the air, feet kicking uselessly as she felt the already weakened bones of her forearm snap from the ferocity of her captor’s grip. Waves of pain coursed down her arm and she realized with a fair amount of disgust that not only had her wrist been broken again, her shoulder had also slid out of its socket.

She thrashed.

It was ugly.

Maker, it was really, really, awfully ugly.  
It also had a name and an Archdemon at its disposal.

“You cling to your myths and your stories, mortal, but I have _seen_ the Black City, I have walked its desolate halls in person, and I know that all that you dare to believe is naught but a lie built of ashes and corruption. You are wrong.” Helene wondered if her ears were leaking blood; something was slowly coming out of them and sliding down her neck, hot and sticky. The voice of the Elder One was a twisted sort of reality that Helene previously would not have thought possible. It made her feel things that she did not know she could feel.

She locked eyes with the Elder One, holding his gaze defiantly, her own anger breaching the instinctual fear that had kept her going thus far. “I don’t believe you.” She hissed through clenched teeth; the pain of her arm was becoming overwhelming. If this evil dreamed to become a god, of course it would attempt to dwarf the power of true faith. “You _know_ nothing.” If her arm hadn't been connected to the rest of her by naught but skin and some muscle at that moment, she would have tried to swing up onto the Elder One's arm and break his neck. 

“The throne of the gods is empty!” The Elder One assured her, flinging her through the air by her destroyed arm. Helene crumpled the earth, the wind crushed from her lungs when her back collided with the trebuchet that halted her flight.

Lights danced in front of her eyes and Helene supposed they looked rather like the fairies from tales she read as a child before she remembered where she was. A strangled cry left her as she forced herself into a sitting position. Between fading high-pitched imaginings, she barely understood the Elder One lamenting the anchor on her hand and how she had ruined it, twisted it from the purpose it was designed for. She knew what came next; the anchor was useless, and he was going to remove her from this life.

“Going to… going to kill me, t-then?” She groaned, her voice little more than a rasp as the Elder One and his pet closed in on her. “Going to ki-kill me like… they killed… Robyn? Kill me w-with my back against a wall?” She let out a wet laugh and blood spurted from her mouth and dripped down her chin. Her good fingers found a wayward sword and she dragged herself to her feet, using the weapon to lean on. In the distance, the signal sailed into the sky and Helene forced her gaze back to the would-be deity, every ounce of conviction she ever had pushing her on, every hour spent under the body-breaking tutelage of Cinaed, every friendly joke and subtle smile shared with Blackwall, every long, curious glance from the Commander. Every lesson she had ever learned and every reason she had to fight were hers to use in this moment. She stood straighter than she thought possible given her injuries, and although her left arm was useless, she held the sword en garde with her right as she stared down the Elder One. “I will be seeing you again.” She promised, pausing to lick her lips clean of blood. “And I will show the world the fate that belongs to a god who is self-designed.”

The Elder One’s beast lunged forward and Helene immediately kicked back the lever of the trebuchet, feeling only the slightest pull of a smug smile visit her lips before turning and fleeing, as quickly as her injured body would carry her. She danced over the splintered ruins of fallen trebuchets, boots whispering over broken beams as the Archdemon’s roar was drowned by the cacophony of a falling mountain.

She leapt into the unknown, solidly hitting her head on a broken post as she plummeted into darkness and cold.

 

Stars shone above her in the gap of the crevasse she had fallen into. It was still night when she woke, but she had no gauge of how long she had been out. All around her was silent now, save for the occasional sighing of snow shifting around her and trickling from the ceiling of the cavern.

For a long time she urged herself to move, aware that staying in such a desolately cold place would surely be the death of her, but it took some time to recover enough to even sit up. Lying on her back, she went from her toes to her head, testing each extremity for range of movement and injury, flexing each muscle that would flex without protest. She concluded after a time, that her wrist had definitely been re-broken, her shoulder was dislocated, she likely had broken ribs, a sprained but possibly broken ankle and most certainly a head injury.

Grating out curses and profanities that echoed around the empty cave, she managed to push herself to a sitting position, then to a crouch, then to her feet.

“Maker save me.” She breathed, forcing herself to take a quaking lurch of a step forward. She bent very slowly to collect the sword that had miraculously fallen with her and leaned heavily against it, using the tip of the weapon to help pull her along at a crawl. Impatient, discouraged by her slow pace and lack of progress, disturbed by the silence of the place she was in, Helene began to hum softly. Noncommittal at first, broken notes filled the hollow nothingness of the cave and Helene pushed on, finding a sense of rhythm with the sword and her shuffling feet. She didn’t possess the strength for words, but the same line ran through her head as she pushed on.

_Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for the fight…_

_Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for the fight…_

She gasped when cold wind whipped her bloodied face when she emerged from the cave. She lost her footing and slid to her knees. With no arm to shield her from the unrelenting gale, she pressed on, still using the sword as a makeshift crutch.

Disoriented, dying, she clung to the words in her mind as she wordlessly repeated her fevered prayer. _Be Thou my battle-shield…sword for the fight. Battle…_

_I am going to die._

_I am_ not _going to die._

_I certainly am. I haven’t the slightest idea where I am…_

_Haven can’t be far._

_Haven is gone._

_I have to go_ somewhere _._

Spent, she dropped into the snow, unable to lift her ice-filled boots over the unending drifts of any longer. She cringed at the harshness of the snow pressing into her cheek and her fingers went slack around the blade in her hand. Warm sleep gave her reprieve and she thought she dreamed a familiar voice shouting somewhere nearby as she drifted into the Fade.

  
  



	5. We Can Be Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just for one day...

She felt safe when she was with him. Protected, watched over, but not helpless. No, never helpless. Helpless was the last thing that he made her feel. If anything he made her feel treasured; valuable – capable beyond her birth, ability and years. Mostly he reminded her of Cinaed. It was foolish of her to feel something for a lowborn cutpurse with scarred cheeks and grey hair. Idly she supposed it was foolish of her to feel something for Blackwall too. Realistically, she was fully aware that it was foolish of her to feel something for anyone, but she supposed it mattered little if her eventuality was death from the mark on her hand.  

She sighed into her tankard of ale and her elbow grazed his as she took a drink. A subtle motion; one of unspoken acknowledgement of the bearded man next to her. Iron Bull emitted a belch that might have shaken the foundations of the tavern and Blackwall glared at him with wizened eyes.

“Apologize to the lady, you dirty thing.” He said. “What sort of man cavorts about in such a way in the presence of a lady? I’ll never understand you –“

Helene silenced Blackwall’s rant with a belch of her own before laughing obscenely.

Blackwall looked at her, a flummoxed expression written on what of his face wasn’t covered in thick, dark hair. “I never would have thought that something like that could come out of a woman so small.” He said in mocked tones of scandal.

“Not so small as you suppose. Unbecoming, on the other hand...” Helene argued, waving over the serving girl. “I’ll get this round.” She said, pointing to herself, Iron Bull and Blackwall.

“Andraste’s sagging tits you will.” Blackwall scoffed. “Make sure she doesn’t pay for those.” He told the serving maid with a stern look.

Helene smiled: She couldn’t remember the last time she had visited the tavern with Blackwall and had a tab to clear. He was in every way, too kind. She liked it. There was a large part of her that was both bolstered and encouraged by the fact that she captivated this man who was over a decade her senior. It was he who had been ever-present during Helene’s recovery after Haven, appearing at her side almost hourly with water or a morsel of food. At one point, he brought her a kitten that had somehow miraculously survived the avalanche. It died only a few days later, unable to live without its mother, but Helene did not blame Blackwall; it was her turn to console him for a change, as the death of the kitten seemed to disturb him more than she.

With his age he brought experience and a refreshing, somewhat old fashioned approach to courting. Blooms of happiness formed in her stomach whenever he held doors open for her, or bid her goodbye with a kiss to the back of her hand. And yet... much the same thing happened when they bathed in rivers and shouted profanities when things hurt and tumbled drunkenly into the hay, his rough hands raking her fair flesh. More than once she wondered if her time in Antiva had completely ruined her desire for a noble husband.

She remembered fondly the occasion at the tavern in Redcliffe when a patron got just a bit too friendly with her. She knew that Blackwall hadn’t intervened because he thought she couldn’t take care of the pest herself. He did it because well; the cracking sound the fool's teeth made when Blackwall had bounced his face off the surface of the bar made her smile. She knew she was lost to him when he swept the folded rubble of the man’s unconscious form off the bar and onto the floor. He leaned close to Helene and asked if she would like another ale – she went weak for chivalry.

“What happened to that broad from last week?” Iron Bull asked, difficult to take seriously with a great deal of foam trapped on his upper lip. “Did you take her up on her offer?”

Helene felt her lips lift at the corners; she knew what Bull was referring to.

A woman, younger than Helene and far deeper into her cups had charmed her way onto Blackwall’s lap during the evening in question. Given her title of Inquisitor, Helene could do little but watch and laugh as the woman straddled the man. One minute she ranted and cursed like a common slattern, the next she was raking her fingers through Blackwall’s beard and the next, she was trying to suck on his neck.

There had been discomfort; perhaps a tinge of jealousy to see another woman draped all over him like a mink fur. Even prior to Robyn’s death, Helene was accustomed to getting what she wanted. What she wanted at that particular moment was to give the woman a good smack. Blackwall too, for that matter.

One simple question gave her pause, just as she opened her mouth, just as the solemn mask of the Inquisitor took over her visage: What man at this age would be displeased to find a woman, newly twenty, eager to be his companion for the night?

Helene decided instead to trust Blackwall as she sat next to Bull and drank, watching the drunk woman lessen her chances with every passing moment; it was not worth arguing the fact that Blackwall had a rather loyal, hound-like quality about him, but he wasn’t stupid by any stretch. He valued intelligence and it wasn’t uncommon for him to catch Helene off guard with his knowledge of history, architecture and art.

More than once she thought she should intervene, but each time she always arrived at the conclusion that there was drinking to do. If she did defend Blackwall, word would spread that the Inquisitor had picked a fight with an unarmed drunk woman.

Un- _Herald_ -ish, that.

“That drunk young one?” Blackwall huffed, taking a long drink. “No.”

Bull’s visible eyebrow raised. “Seriously? She was all over you.”

Blackwall shrugged, calloused fingers stroking the sides of his tankard. “Not my type.” He harrumphed, staring straight ahead with a sternness that might have been off putting if Helene didn’t know him better.

Bull roared with incredulous laughter, slapping his thighs. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! A pretty young thing like that willing to bed an ugly old man like you and you say she’s not your type?!” The Qunari stood, enormous shoulders still quaking. He slapped Blackwall on the back. “I’ll be right back. I’ve gotta go tell the… I -- I can't keep this to myself. Hahaha… you said ‘no,’ jackass.” He turned and sauntered in the direction which the Chargers usually sat. Blackwall glowered at Helene.

“To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t make an honest woman of her.” Helene said, lowering her voice and putting her face close to Blackwall's. He smelled of hops and burning pine.

“A man mustn’t be greedy, my lady, and I had prior obligations to a woman far more beautiful that evening.” He said, gruff and almost stand-offish.

It was a tone drove shivers up Helene’s spine. It was as though the very suggestion that he could lie to her was so preposterous that it annoyed him.

“Oh?” She purred,  pressing herself closer, fingers finding the chin that lived somewhere under all the beard. “Should I feel threatened by this beautiful paramour?”

“Possibly.” He said, his voice lowering to match hers. The smooth, husky quality of his voice a sinful baritone that made Helene’s knees feel weak, and the warden knew it too. “If you must know, she’s soft and bright with hair the colour of embers.” She felt him reach up and pull aside a strand of hair so as to plant the gentlest of kisses beneath her ear. She stifled laughter, squirming at the tickle of his beard. “Among this quality, she is also just and fair. A beacon of hope to many. She is a woman who is not afraid to do what must be done.”  He ran his fingertips up the small of her back and air vacated her lungs and fell from her lips. He touched her with an unspoken authority; the smallest suggestion of dominance that made her face turn hot and her knees go weak. “We could all learn much from such a woman…”

Helene’s hand rose to catch his wrist, his hand hovering over her cheek, prepared to elicit further shivers.

“Come now, Warden Blackwall.” She hissed, tormented. “You certainly aren’t being very _subtle_.”

“My lady, I couldn’t give two shits who sees how lucky I am.” He rumbled, squeezing the Inquisitor’s ass, earning himself a light smack and a burning look that made his stomach flip-flop.

“Let’s get out of here, then.” She growled, teasing him and stepping just outside of his grasp. “Unless… you’re promised to this other beautiful woman tonight…”

Blackwall sighed and threw some silver down on the bar. “You’re going to be the death of me, woman.” He teased, following Helene into the darkness.

 

 

Moonlight poured in through the gaps of the ceiling, illuminating the loft of the barn with a celestial silver light. Helene was wide awake despite the late hour, as was her lover.

“I can’t sleep.” She muttered, twining her fingers through his hair. It was tangled and damp with sweat from their exertions, littered with bits of wayward straw.

“I don’t want to.” He answered, drawing a rough thumb down her bare shoulder and looking up through the slats of the roof at the stars picked out in the sky.

“Oh? And why would that be, ser?” Pressing closer to Blackwall, she reveled in the heat he radiated as she nuzzled her face into his shoulder.

“Because if I were asleep, I’d be missing this.”

Helene smiled; his voice was usually so rough and so wrought with conviction or vulgarity. Occasionally though, the thick exterior fell away leaving only a man. A man, Helene had discovered who was capable of great love. A man who felt sad when small creatures died. A man who cared more deeply than he would ever admit.

“You’ll never have to miss this, my love.” She promised, planting a tender kiss on his chest.

“No?” He posed the question and turned his head to look at Helene’s dimly outlined face. “You say that with such confidence.”

“And why not?” She posed.

“I don’t deserve a woman like you.” Blackwall sighed, pressing his forehead against hers, and tugging her close as if she'd melt away. He laughed quietly then, “I think sometimes you forget who you are. You’re the Inquisitor, and under that, a noblewoman. I’m only a warden. How did a man like me end up with you?”

“Come now,” Helene chided gently, the facetious quality unmistakable in her sleepy voice. “I’m fascinated by you, Blackwall. By your valor, your dedication… your stories… your ability to drink most men under the table.” Tired laughter punctuated the last part. “You are… at the very core, a man of substance, a trait that I find attractive above all else. Besides all that, I do believe I’ve more than earned the ability to choose whom I love.”

Blackwall pulled her warm body closer and buried his face in her hair, closing his eyes.

“Your words do me far too much kindness, my lady.” He whispered, kissing the top of her head and wrapping a hand around one of hers as she began to drift to sleep. He stayed awake, holding her, staring at the stars, warding sleep away, lest she be gone when he woke.


	6. Have You Got Colour in Your Cheeks?

Cullen adjusted the binding of one of his greaves while he waited. Around him recruits stretched and sparred. He stretched his own neck, willing away an incessant ache rooted somewhere between his shoulder blades while simultaneously praying for the mental fog in his mind to recede before Helene arrived at the camp. He found of late that while many of the physical symptoms of his recovery were beginning to recede, he was more often than not struggling through inconvenient periods of mental sluggishness that were more annoying than debilitating.  

He had deemed this idea of Leliana’s a stroke of brilliance until he received a report that stated that Leliana was not going to be in charge of this training.

“ _Lady Trevelyan_?” He had asked the smug looking spymaster, his mouth going dry. “Might I ask _why_ the Inquisitor is wasting valuable time doing this?” He curled his fingers around a stitch in his side earned from scrambling up the steps to the rookery more than a little flustered that he hadn't thought to ask in the first place; it was now the evening before the workshop and there was no backing out now. “I’m certain you would suffice.”

Leliana’s lips tilted up in good humor. “I thank you for your vote of confidence, Cullen, but the Inquisitor has a far more hands on position in relation to fighting our enemy than I. She was trained by a petty sellsword, not a trained assassin. I think the information she might impart to our soldiers in regard to close combat stealth attacks may be of use to them. Or have you not noticed that she doesn’t seem to cater to the notion of a fair fight?” Leliana chuckled lightly at the implied rhetoric while her fingers tied a scroll to the waiting leg of a crow.

Unwilling to cater to a fair fight was an understatement as far as Cullen was concerned. He didn’t travel with Helene, so he did not often see her in action, but he remembered Haven. In his mind he saw her, thirty paces away from his chances of aiding her in the chaos, rubbing a handful of broken, crushed glass into the eyes of a templar lieutenant that had her pinned: The templar screamed and twisted in agony, grasping at his ruined eyes-- she cleanly gutted him and walked away.

He’d read the field reports from the scouts and troops that followed in her wake: He had no reason to doubt Helene’s capability, he just… he hadn’t spoken with her since the disastrous end to their chess game. He hadn’t meant to come across as cold and harsh as he did: he didn’t want to get in the way of her and Blackwall. Was that so loathsome?

Besides, the smirk Leliana wore before she turned to the window to loose the crow made him feel nothing short of suspicious. If Leliana had nothing else going for her, she was always certain to have an endgame. Not even her love of dainty silk shoes was enough to distract him from that fact.

There was a loud cantering of hooves on frozen earth and he looked up from his adjustments when the morning shattered into abrupt shadow.

“Good morning, Commander."

“Inquisitor.” He acknowledged, standing.

“As you were.” She drawled, considering him before slipping from the saddle of her gelding, “You look tired, did you sleep well?” She tugged off her riding gloves with her teeth and handed the reins to a waiting stable-boy.

He felt an unwelcome flush visit his cheeks: He had in fact had a trying night.

“Perhaps not, but that is neither here nor there, your Grace.” He deflected, taking note of her own tired eyes and the straw that was sticking out of her semi-tamed hair. It didn’t take much to glean that she had spent the night in the stables, under the moon, not alone. Cullen swallowed and pushed those thoughts from his mind, annoyed that they were even there to begin with. “Are you ready to begin?” He asked, accepting the itinerary the scout at his side had just passed him. He kept one for himself and gave one to Helene, who nodded as she read down the list.

“This all looks to be in order.” She answered, her breath becoming thick and white around her in the cold morning air. “Pleasant change from paperwork, wouldn't you say? Shall we?”

She turned to the throng of recruits and silence fell. Cullen couldn't help but feel a bit pleased with himself: These men were well trained by his hand.

“Good morning.” She began simply. “One of the largest problems you’ll face when in combat with someone like me, is flanking.” She explained, her ever-constant need of something in her hands plain as day. The familiar habit amused Cullen as she strolled around the yard of troops, talking and toying with a dagger: One moment she was testing the edge with her thumb, the next it was swinging from her fingers by the guard. She'd sheath it, and pull it out again seconds later: She was nervous. They may not have been on the most friendly of terms of late, but he knew Helene well enough to know that while she accepted the reality of it, she did not enjoy addressing large groups of people.

“ -- the last thing you want to happen is to allow yourself to focus all your energy on the largest and most obvious threat in the scuffle. Imagine if you will, a big bastard with a war hammer: it's only natural to forget to the other person, standing in the shadows nearby.” She came to a stop, the sudden cease of snow-crunching under her feet punctuating the silence. “Rest assured that we who stand in the shadows will kill you faster than the big man with the hammer: If you turn your back on me, I _will_ put a knife in it.”

Her morbid promise gave him pause and Cullen swallowed, glancing at the sun instead of allowing himself to admire her confident stride down the ranks any longer. He knew that she did not savour leadership, but _they_ had no idea. Lady Trevelyan had come into her bloody role with an aggression that he had not expected from a court-reared-noblewoman. She had a pious respect for her title, but was unafraid to use the power and mystique that came with it. It was plain that this squad of troops was in the palm of Helene's hand: She was their Herald; they would follow any order she decreed.  "The huge enemy may strike you as the highest priority. However, a direct attack on him is not going to afford him the time to pick out your weaknesses, whereas for someone like me, it does.”

_She does have a talent for theatrics, I'll give her that..._

Cullen was still blinking sunlight out of his eyes when he heard the whisper of frosty earth being disturbed. Before he could look around, he felt the cold metal of the flat side of a blade pressed to his throat. “Staring at the sun on a battlefield…” Her muttered words were hot on the cold shell of his ear. “ _Surprising_ , Commander.”

_Maker’s breath…_

As expected, the yard broke out in boisterous laughter at his own expense. He couldn't fault the troops for it; he was hard on them, but kind. At the same time, it seemed fair that it brought them cheer to see him on the receiving end of a lesson for a change.

He attempted to pull away, assuming that now that she had caught him like a cat catches a mouse, she might let him go. Instead, her forearm tightened around his shoulder joint where she held him fast. He found himself remembering the mouser at home in Honnleath. He had watched her play with a captured mouse for over an hour once...

She smelled of hay and musk and sex, he realized, the latter observance assailing his psyche like a miasma. His own mind played against him as unbidden, he imagined her lithe form writhing atop him in the stables instead of Blackwall. _Red hair falling all around her pale shoulders as she moves. Neck lengthened, and her pointed chin jutting skywards as fire rolls down her breasts and back..._

“ – Which brings us to our next point: Where might a flanking knife-wielder attack you once the advantage is gained?” Helene removed the blade from Cullen’s throat, tossing it into the air with a fluid movement and catching it. She placed it at the gap in his armor between his armpit and his shoulder. “A wound here, delivered with enough ferocity will puncture his lung and he will die an agonizing death as he drowns in his own blood.” She maneuvered the dagger with ease again, this time wedging the tip with great care into the crack in the side of his breastplate. “One here, can do anything from bleed a man, to turn his fancy armor into naught but a shiny sausage casing for his guts.” Her tone was the last of it for him; his troops were meant to be learning how to disable rogues, not what happens when they failed to do so.

Patience spent, as well as much of his own resolve, he gritted his teeth and forced an elbow between himself and the arm that held the dagger.  He leveraged the weight she was using to hold him with her other arm to roll her over his back and onto the dusty ground with a thud.

In a chain of movements that no doubt looked dull in comparison to her precision, he kicked her dagger out of reach and drew his own weapon. Cullen scowled, pointing the tip of his sword at her throat as she coughed in the dirt. “Chatting may win your chess games, Inquisitor, but it will not win your battles.” He challenged quietly. He turned to the recruits.“You saw what I did to neutralize the tactic. Divide into groups of two, one is the rogue, the other is the swordsman. Practice the scenario!” Cullen looked at the group of trainees who wasted little time heeding his order. He returned his gaze to Helene, who was still spitting out clods of dirt and grass and snow. He offered her a hand up, which she took with a grateful expression on her face.

Apologizing and asking if she was alright crossed his mind. Unfortunately, before he could speak his weight was all at once leveraged against nothing and he was falling backwards.

“Careful.” Helene’s voice said behind him as he felt two hands pushing him forward. “I would _hate_ to see you fall.” He regained his balance and cast around; where in the name of Andraste has she gone? He didn't linger long on the question. She appeared in front of him, her blades flying towards him with enough speed that only his reflexes saved him. At the last moment, his arm jerked up and his sword kissed the steel of the small, sharp blades. _She wasn’t actually taking a swing, was she? Had I not blocked she would have stopped._

Unquelled, turning Cullen’s hesitation to her own purpose, Helene sheathed one dagger with ease while pushing his sword arm down towards the ground. She scrambled up on her improvised foothold, like a cat fleeing up a tree. She used the unbroken momentum to topple him to the ground from her place on his shoulders. He felt nimble fingers peel his own away from the hilt of his sword as he coughed and spluttered where she did only moments earlier. Cullen blinked dust from his eyes and strategized his next move.

It occurred to him that Helene was at a disadvantage as her action had also left her on the ground, although not disoriented and coughing. Cullen seized the opportunity, unwilling to let her win with such flamboyance and ease. As Helene scrambled to her feet, Cullen’s hand reached from the cloud of dust, wrapping around her ankle. Unable to retreat to a safe distance, her own strategies were no good anymore. Her shocked utterance gave way to a curse, and she fell to the ground next to him.

 _Is she laughing? Of course she is_ , Cullen decided, letting go of the ankle and grasping what he knew to be her good wrist before she could scramble away.

“Inquisitor.” He warned. “Inquisitor _stop_ , people are watching, they’re -- .” He then realized that he was laughing too: Short panting bursts between every reprimand. He realized then that he was just as much in her palm as the rest of the soldiers. _When did she manage that?_

She rolled to her knees, dust and snow sloughing off of her well broken in leathers. “If it means so much to you, I would be happy to give you the opportunity to win your dignity back with another game of chess,” she goaded with an aside meant only for him. The corners of her mouth lifted in a rare show of submission and she stretched a hand out to him, which he took, and this time she did right by it. “Shall we continue?” She asked with a sideways glance.

They turned to the yard full of recruits and stunned silence gave way to thunderous hollering. Hands clapped. Feet stomped. Helene raised a fist in the air and emitted her very best war cry. A hundred voices bellowed back.

Cullen wished he wasn't so glad she was there.

 

 

 

  



	7. Our Love Condemns Us

He enjoyed the early morning stillness of Skyhold. He rose at the hour when the sun was just beginning to crest the mountains and shine on the fortress – a fleeting period of time between dawn and the inevitable early morning chaos of troops organizing, scouts rushing to their positions, merchants taking early morning inventory, and people clamoring for a space in the breakfast queue. It was an uninterrupted period of time in which he could bathe, push his hair into some semblance of order, dress, eat a small plate of food and get a head start on his day before the ever-present line of agents and guardsmen conglomerated, jockeying for his attention, shoving reports into his hands, waiting, requiring his orders. There were _always_ orders;  given or received, there was no escaping it.

On this particular morning, he had been sitting down at his desk, having just finished dressing for the day, ready to tuck into to a plate of dried fruits and meats; a favourable accompaniment to the stack of reports and acquisitions that loomed on his desktop. Mornings that came with an appetite were hard to come by these days, but each morning a plate of food awaited him regardless. He never asked for it, it was just always there.

He had flipped to where he left his work the night before and had been about to pop a dried apricot into his mouth when he was alerted by a curious patter of footsteps and then an authoritative, if slightly hurried hammering at his door.

“Commander Cullen?” Came the voice of Helene, raised, uncharacteristically desperate. He was already on his feet and halfway across the room before she could knock again, “Cullen!” _Thump-thump-thump_ , “Are you –“ He opened the door and Helene tumbled inside, her hair in a ruined knot on the back of her head, straw sticking out every which way as usual. Her clothing was in varying states of disarray, buttons protruded from mismatched slits, buckles were left undone to flap sadly in the wake of her abrupt entrance. Her feet were bare.

“You’re awake!” She remarked as she burst over the threshold and regained her balance.

“As always.” He said dryly, frowning at her disheveled state. “What…? What’s the matter?” He grasped the hilt of his sword and took a step forward, gently pushing Helene out of the doorway so he could get a better view of the courtyard. “Treachery?”

“No! Maker, no!” She cried, dragging her hands over her face, looking wholly deranged. “He’s – he’s gone, Cullen. I don’t k-know where but he’s g-gone!” Her words tore from her lips as panicked gasps and Cullen realized that Helene was not crying as he initially thought; she was in a full-blown mode of panic. He had seen this before, in templars and mages alike. “He’s just…” She gestured a hand through the air wildly, leaving green traces of light in the air behind it. “... fucked off!”

“Alright,” He said gently, sheathing his sword and holding a hand out to Helene, “May I?” He asked, waiting for her permission to get closer. She looked at him for a moment before nodding and he took her hand, leading her to the chair he kept in the corner of his office. “Ah, forgive me, Inquisitor.” He realized that like every other flat surface in his office, this too was covered in heaping stacks of books and parchment. “Here.” He said firmly, grabbing the back of the chair and unceremoniously dumping the contents onto the floor; he could re-organize it later, right now he needed to figure out what had Helene so uncharacteristically distraught. He cast his gaze around until he found the matching footrest for the chair and he pulled it closer, sitting on it across from Helene. “Inquisitor? My Lady? _Helene_.” He said a bit more firmly to get her attention; her name felt strange to his tongue. “Who’s gone?”

“Blackwall.” The name fell from her lips like the wilted petal of an old rose. Cullen felt sick.

“Do you recall anything of note?” He asked, feeling disgusted with himself when he realized his hand still gripped Helene’s. He withdrew his fingers quickly. “Has he said anything of late that may have indicated he planned to leave?” _I’ve asked these very same questions to mages for far different reasons_ , he realized unhappily.

“He seemed… he seemed out of sorts last night. He kept mentioning being a warden, how there was no future for us so long as he was a warden and… I understand the concept of the star-crossed demise of the noble and the commoner, but...” Cullen watched as Helene seemed to replay much of the night over in her mind in only a few short seconds before she straightened up in her seat a bit, gaining some semblance of control over her breathing. She looked directly at Cullen, that familiar cold intensity returning to her light eyes. “He was _very_ insistent that he was not worthy of me.”

Helene shot to her feet and paced madly: Cullen had seen this before at the war table many a time; she was planning, strategizing, deducing what the enemy (or in this case Blackwall,) had left her to work with. “I told him that it was alright, that regardless of his status as a warden -- because let’s be honest,” She gesticulated a hand through empty space in front of her, “I can bloody well make my own choices at this point. So I promised I would remain by his side…” She spoke as she paced, seeming to forget Cullen’s presence in the room entirely. “’ _For now let there be nothing else. No one else_.’ That’s what he said.” She whispered, halting suddenly and beating one of her fists in an open palm as she thought.

“What is that you’re holding?” Cullen pointed to her clenched fist, happy that Helene had returned to a more… predictable and familiar state.

“This?” She opened her palm and held the item up to Cullen, “Blackwall’s warden badge. He left it along with this note.” She thrust both objects towards Cullen, who gently removed them from her hands, still aware of her edgy demeanor. He gave her space as he read over the brief message.

_Just know that while it hurt to leave,--_

“ _It would’ve hurt more if I stayed_.” Helene quoted in a snarl, her fingers dancing dangerously close to the lethal weapon at her hip and the one at her back. Muscles froze, all momentum halted and she seemed to cave in on herself, though her hands were still tense and shaking.

Cullen allowed Helene a moment to cool off before he spoke: Rage was not a new concept to him, though she was still new to a world of using anger as motivation: it was natural for her to be this volatile. _I used to be this volatile_ , he reminded himself. “Why did you come to me?” He asked quietly, lowering the parchment.

Helene sighed and raked a hand through her hair, disheveling the knot further, staring at the floor, looking very much like a sad, tired noblewoman who wanted to go home.

“I… I don’t know. I mean… no.” She sighed and visibly forced herself to pull it together. “Listen. I don’t know why he did what he did, I don’t know why he said what he said last night, and I don’t know why he left me that note. What I do know is…” She faltered, momentarily unable to say the next words. Another long sigh pushed her through. “What I do know is that I now have reasonable grounds based upon the items left behind, and through personal experience to put out a warrant for his capture.”

“Personal experience?” 

“Have you ever had a feeling in your stomach just before you do something bad or wrong or stupid that kind of… suggests that you don’t do it?” She glanced at Cullen again, crossing her arms and tapping her fingers against the leather of her sleeve. “I suspect that I am about to learn a lesson the hard way.” She turned on her heel and resumed pacing, raking a hand through her hair again, pulling even more of it loose. “It must happen to you too.”

“I am indeed familiar with the sensation.” Cullen said, crossing to his desk and grabbing his breakfast. “Here,” he said, “This will help.”

A dismissive hand cut through the air, all Inquisitor, little Helene. “No thank you. I couldn’t possibly eat right now.”

Cullen chuckled, grateful for the opportunity to lighten the situation if only a little. “I understand that it’s difficult to fathom wasting time on something as ineffectual as eating right now, Inquisitor, but I must often remind myself the same; you need to keep your strength up – anger alone is not going to fill your belly.” He continued to hold the plate out to her and when she still didn’t take it he said, “If you don’t do as you’re told, Maker help me I will chase you to the ends of the earth with this plate of food.”

“Very good that you’re coming anyway.” Helene said, meeting his warm, weighted gaze with one that was disconnected and unfamiliar. Dismissive wit finally returned to her voice. “That is after all why I came here. You asked, remember? Yes. As I said, I have reasonable proof to suspect Blackwall is not as he seems, and thus, I would have him returned to Skyhold, pending an investigation. I’m putting you in charge of the search, Commander.”

“Me?” Cullen cleared his throat, and Helene helped herself to a fig. “Wouldn’t this be more suited to Leliana?”

Helene nodded. “Parts of the investigation, indeed. But when it comes to the actual leg work, I need you Commander. I’ve heard tales of lions hunting.” She stretched her neck and stood. She opened the door to the battlements and beckoned the scout standing guard inside. “Your name, agent?”

“Jim, Lady Inquisitor.”

“A moment of your time, if you would.” She closed the door behind the scout as he stepped inside. “I need you to visit the Spymaster. You must tell her that I have decreed an open investigation pertaining to warden Blackwall and his sudden flight from Skyhold. She has my permission to use however many as she likes to get a lead on where he may of gone, or why he may have left.”

“A verbal message, your Grace?” Jim asked, looking uncertain, “Will the Nightingale believe my words?”

“I will be in the stables within the hour. I expect an agent to meet me there with answers.”

“By your will, Inquisitor.” Jim bowed and took off at a sprint.

Helene closed the door and turned back to face Cullen.

“Does he really think that he can hide from the Inquisition?” She asked. “This is a joke.” She uttered to no one and her hand thudded limply against the wood of the door. 


	8. They Oughta Practice What They Preach

“I kept the ruse going for almost four months. Anonymous letters detailing things that only someone who spent time around her could know. All of them signed, _O. Cobblepot_.” Helene grinned thinly and tilted the mug to her lips, swallowing a good quantity of ale. “She had no idea it was me. I went so far as to teach myself to write left handed so as to incriminate me less. Her face when I finally told her, after she opened the final letter. Oh Maker… I will never forget it. ‘ _It was you, Helene? The whole time?_ ’” She laughed at the memory of her childhood friend, standing agape as the fruit of a delicately planned, perfectly executed prank ripened and fell.

Bull’s laughter joined hers, deep and rich. “So you’re telling me that you’ve always been a sneaky little shit, hey boss?”

Helene put back another good chug of ale, “Oh yes.” She said mischievously. “I recall members of my parent’s staff petitioning them to put a bell on me at one point. I had this nasty penchant as a child to wait outside of doors and scare the piss out of anyone coming through.” She tilted the mug for another sip only to find it dry. She set it on the wood of the bar with a thud, and it was replaced with a full one almost instantly; one of the perks of being the Inquisitor was remarkably fast bar service.

She spluttered when she brought the brimming mug to her lips and one of Bull’s enormous hands clapped her on the back, winding her and nearly causing her beer to fly across the room.

“To the boss!” He boomed, lifting his mug in a toast and looking around the bar. “A woman who will not be belled!” All around them mugs were raised and cheers issued. Helene drank from her own mug, still trying to recover her breath.

“All screwing around aside, how you holding up?” Bull asked when everyone had resumed drinking.

Helene’s lips pressed into a humorless smirk. “Well, I’m drunk. That’s something to be happy about. I’m not sitting alone in my chambers feeling badly for myself, and I haven’t burnt down the fucking stables, so that’s another thing to be glad for.”

“I do love setting things on fire.” Bull mused, his eyes wandering into what Helene could only assume was a distant memory of arson.  He set his empty mug on the bar and it was instantly full again; maybe even a little faster than Helene’s had been. The pretty ginger behind the bar winked at Bull before walking away.

“I’m just… I’m really angry.” She confided. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing. There’s a clarity that comes with it. It’s not even about the lies. It’s about the murder and the treason. He killed children: There’s a difference between being in the wrong place at the wrong time and being murdered for a bag of gold. If he felt so badly about it all this time, he wouldn’t have lied to his men and then let them die for him. He is everything that is wrong with the rank of officer.”  She took another long drink to ward off the tightness in her throat before continuing.  “I’m furious as the Inquisitor because it makes us look weak. It makes me look foolish and heart-driven; incapable.”

“I’ve seen some things, boss. You’re not incapable.” Bull said tritely, signaling the barmaid for two whiskeys.

“Aren’t I?” Helene scoffed, throwing back more beer, inebriation settling on her like a warm blanket. She glared up at Bull, the anger and hurt that she had felt since Val Royeaux threatening to make an appearance at last. She had devoted so much time and energy to her image and outward manner. She was meticulous and careful in every decision she made but now – reason could fuck itself.

She drew one of her daggers and slammed the tip of it into the surface of the bar. Her fingers remained wrapped tightly around the hilt and she threw back the whiskey in one easy go. “I wanted to believe in the best part of him, even though I suspected that something was… off.” She said, voice rough from the whiskey. “There were too many secrets, too many occasions where what he was saying simply didn’t add up. Hell, he even tried to warn me away when all of this started, and I didn’t fucking _listen_. I figured that we’ve all made mistakes and that everyone has dark, dusty corners in their pasts that they generally avoid mentioning…  I certainly hadn’t thought to consider _treason_.” She wriggled the tip of the blade into the wood and swallowed more ale. “He was so devoted to me. So noble hearted. He worshipped the ground I walked on… not because he truly admired me, but because I was just another hero to aspire to. One he could call his own. I always suspected…” Her voice flagged and she couldn’t look at Bull. “I could have saved myself all of this, you know?”

Bull nodded and chugged some of his own ale. Helene needed this. He’d watched her all day, walking around Skyhold, composing herself as if it were all business as usual, but there was a tightness in her shoulders and a deadness in her eyes that betrayed her.

“Leave the bottle.” He said to the redhead, before turning back to Helene. “ _Coulda_ isn’t going to do you any good, boss: Most useless fucking word in your language if you ask me. Pain teaches us unforgettable lessons because pain goes deep. You learned something. It hurts like a bitch right now, but tell me, are you gonna distrust your gut again?”

“No.” Helene grumbled.

“Lose c _oulda_.” Bull growled into his tankard. “Be hard, but not hard on yourself. How would you have known anyway? In the Qun we don’t have relationships; we have roles. If you think about it, you weren’t much different in that aspect before all this shit started. Your role was to hook up with the most eligible, most well-bred male your family could find and have important, noble-blooded babies. Now you’re the Inquisitor and you can choose whose pups you want to whelp. Just so happens, the first time you chose, you fucked up. Not your fault – Just a lesson.”

“What did he expect me to do?” Helene retorted, pulling the blade out of the bar and replacing it on her hip. “Not track him down? As you mentioned, I’m the fucking Inquisitor. I wasn’t about to just shrug and let him run away.” She considered her words as she spoke them. “I rather wish that I had, now.”

“Can’t change the past, boss.” Bull reiterated, pouring them each a whiskey. “I’ll let you in on an old story of mine; it’s one of my favourites to bring up when the boys are feeling down on themselves.” He slammed back the whiskey and let out a whisper of a roar before continuing. “I was a lot younger than I am now, barely as tall as my hammer, freshly trusted with wielding a real weapon instead of a stick. One morning I went to the yard for training with my fellows. We trained with real weapons in the yard; none of this light metal and blunted edges bullshit that your people seem to like.” He paused for a drink. “Anyway, in the Qun, weapons are communal; you want one, you go get it. You put it back when you don’t have any use for it so someone else can take it. I picked up a broadsword that morning that felt a bit off. I looked it over and decided that it was fine; I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. It just felt weird. So off to the yard I went and within five fucking minutes boss, I blocked a swing and the sword shattered.” Bull shook his head and laughed. “I was digging steel splinters out of my face for months. The point is, the fact that there was something wrong with the sword wasn’t my fault; someone else would have picked up the fucking thing and ended up in the same place as I did. I just happened to be the unlucky bastard who learned that lesson the hard way.”

“What lesson?” Helene asked, raising an eyebrow, adding another whiskey to her belly.

“If it feels wrong, it probably is. I _coulda_ set the sword aside and brought it to the smith for inspection later, but I didn’t. So I learned something instead. So what you can do right now is put back this whiskey and accept the splinters. And try and keep up: Drinking with people around here is usually disappointing.”

“You don’t scare me.” She claimed. Bull smirked; he liked Helene for this reason: She truly wasn’t lying. This one had a stout heart for being from such a delicate race and upbringing, and that side of her became even more apparent the more that she drank. She aimed a punch at his shoulder and had to admit that the wince it produced was actually genuine: Yup. She had something alright.

“To redheads.” Bull purred, raising his glass to hers. They drank and Helene slid off her stool, a bit less surefooted than usual.

“I have to go.” She said abruptly. “I’ll be back in a bit. I just… I need some air.” Bull nodded wordlessly at the slightly slurred speech of the Inquisitor.

“Alright boss, I’ll be right here. Can’t promise there’ll be any whiskey left though.”

She waved a hand through the air and squeezed through the crowded pub, relieved by the cool mountain air that hit her face as she slipped into the night.

Skyhold by day was quickly becoming a bustling center of activity. Every day it seemed there were more people milling about the castle; Fereldans, with their dogs and their leather, Orlesians standing in scattered circles, gossiping as the cold wind whipped their coloured silks around them, mages working with templars, soldiers, merchants… yes, Skyhold was growing quickly.

At night however, it may have been easy to mistake it for the ruin it was when they had first arrived; few braved the bitterly cold, often snowy nights and there was barely a person in sight.

Helene wandered towards the stairs to the castle gardens, looking up at the towers as she strolled. Without really knowing why she glanced up at Cullen’s tower; orange flickering light glowed from the window and she wondered why he was still awake so late. She meant to thank him after Val Royeaux: Despite her outburst outside the prison that had left a noticeable dent in the door, his words had helped. She felt guilt at every rushed encounter since she had let on regarding her foolish infatuation with him weeks earlier. If anything though, she was faithful and she’d happily make a fool of herself a thousand more times if it meant keeping her integrity.

She huffed and her breath materialized as a cloud in front of her. She considered for a moment visiting the castle jail, talking to Blackwall one more time before she passed judgment on him in the morning. But…

“That’s a terrible idea.” She slurred quietly to herself, meandering vaguely in the direction of the gardens. She knew she was drunk, and she knew that it would do neither of them any good right now. Not when the wounds were so raw.  She cut through the keep and pushed through the door to the gardens. She looked up to see a dark shape on the other side of the gardens that she thought would be empty. Her gloved fingers brushed the hilt of one of her daggers while she squinted through the darkness until she recognized the owner of the shadow. “Commander?”

There was a creaking of leather as Cullen turned in her direction, faintly illuminated by torchlight and stars. “Inquisitor.” He acknowledged, seeming surprised. “It’s late.”

“Yes.” She said, “You say that as if I’m unaware.”

“No it’s not that it’s just…” He trailed off but didn’t falter for long. “I was still working. My eyes were swimming from the stack of reports still on my desk and I needed some fresh air.”

“I see.” She said. “Would you be opposed to walking with me so that we may share the freshness of the air together?”

She saw his lips turn up slightly in the weak light. “Not at all, Inquisitor.”

He joined her on the garden path and they resumed walking, silence dominating the space between them until Cullen worked up the focus to speak; he felt weak and feverish, with waves of heat rolling relentlessly through him. The cold wind was a blessing. Truthfully, he had been trying to sleep for hours, but a cheap imitation was all he was getting.

“I’ve told you my reasons for being up so late, so I remain curious as to why you’re also out for a late night walk.” He glanced sideways at Helene, noticing then that her eyes were a bit unfocused and there was a trace of whisky floating on the air around her. Ah.

“I’m not looking forward to tomorrow.” She stated, all Inquisitor, little Helene. “I had some drinks with The Iron Bull in an effort to ease my mind, or at least distract it.”

“Judging by the fact that you’re not there, I would assume your efforts were unsuccessful.” Cullen noted, offering Helene a compassionate smile.

“I might have put a rather large wound in the surface of the bar.” She admitted, returning a coy smile of her own. “I’m honestly just… I actually wanted to say thank you for what you said to me at Val Royeaux. I was in a bad state and if you hadn’t said what you said things might have turned out much differently.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“I was going to leave him to the judgment of Orlais. Let him have the coward’s death that he craved. You reminded me that while his past is indeed marred with mistakes and lies, he did try to do the right thing.”

“You’re not going to have him executed tomorrow?”.

“No.” Helene said. “While that may be satisfying to some, I find myself unable to get behind it. He wishes to atone, and he will be given the chance to do so.”

Cullen wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of his hand despite the biting wind. “You’re a just leader, Inquisitor. We all trust that you’ll make the right decision.”

“Thank you, Commander.” She said, slowing to a stand-still. The sound of horses from the stables nearby floated across the wind. “Are you feeling unwell?” She asked, looking at him carefully.

“No.” He said a bit too quickly. “I mean… not really. I don’t feel… well.” He hoped that it was dark enough that Helene couldn’t see the colour rush to his cheeks. He didn’t like talking about lyrium; talking about it opened the door to reasons to justify taking it and considering the betrayal Helene had just suffered, she didn’t need another reason to doubt the capability of those around her.

“I see.” She said, after considering him for a moment thoughtfully. “Is there anything that I can do to help? Anything I can get you that might make the night easier for you?”

Cullen shook his head, moved that she would even think to ask such a thing considering what she was going through herself. “Unfortunately no, not much helps other than time. It passes. Thank you though. I tire quickly of this weakness.”

“Weakness?” Helene repeated in a tone of mock scorn, “What you’re currently putting yourself through willingly is about as far away from weak as a person can get I think.” She bowed her head gently, a strand of wavy hair slid over her shoulder. “I will think of you during my morning chant.”

“You’re too kind, Inquisitor.” Cullen smiled; Helene rather enjoyed it. It was a shy, pious sort of smile. It made it easy to see the hope that drove him.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and breathed into them to warm them. “Yes, I’m starting to think so too.” She sighed “I ought to head back before Bull drinks the place dry. You’re welcome to join us if you like, I’m sure morale would be boosted a bit if the Commander was seen having a drink with his men.”

Cullen shook his head. “Not tonight I’m afraid. Stack of reports, swimming eyes.” He reminded her. Helene nodded and turned to leave. Cullen, having a bit more on his mind to say, reached out and put a gloved hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder, causing her to pause.

“Yes?” Helene said, turning to face Cullen, her face patient and blank.

Perhaps it was his spinning mind, or his desire to be something more than a person enslaved to lyrium, but he decided that he didn’t want Helene to go. He didn’t want to be alone right now, and he didn’t want her to be alone either. She shouldn’t be alone right now.

“Inquisitor… I -- “ He dropped his hand to her side and took hers in his. She did not pull away. She did not speak. She did not smile. But she also did not make any indication that she was uncomfortable. She only continued to try and suss out the Commander with her noble eyes. “I’m...” He cleared his throat, his mouth dry, and not from withdrawals. “I’m sorry this is happening to you.” He had received word that Rainier had requested to speak to Helene upon being handed over to the Inquisition. Personal audiences were not granted to prisoners by the Inquisitor herself. This rule applied to Thom Rainier as well, therefore, the request fell off of the map; if Helene felt strongly enough to go and visit Rainier, she would do it of her own accord, not due to his begging to see her.

“Thank you, Commander.” She said. “Your support means a lot to me.” There was an urge to touch his face, get to know his lips but… not now. She was drunk, her head was spinning, and she was eye-deep in precarious emotions already. Instead, she pulled her hand free from his gently. “I’ll see you in the morning. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to send someone my way.” It was open- ended and vague, but the implication was completely intentional on Helene’s part.

“The same goes for you, Inquisitor.” Cullen replied, slipping back into the visage of Commander; all propriety returning as quickly as it had vanished.

Helene slipped quietly back into the night, emerging into the warm light of the tavern. Bull was right where she had left him at the bar, noticeably drunk and half asleep, the whiskey bottle stood empty beside him.

“Where the fuck did you run off to? Orlais?” He grunted.

“I went for a walk around the gardens, asshole.” She retorted, snagging the whiskey bottle and rattling it. “Well I suppose I can’t accuse you of lying. You didn’t leave me a drop.”

Bull snorted and glanced, droopy-eyed at Helene. “Nope.  And what’s got you looking so smug, boss?”

“Smug?” She repeated. “Me? Never.” She smacked the Qunari on the back. “I’m off to bed, Bull. You should do the same.”

“No one tells The Iron _Fucking_ Bull what to do...” He muttered drunkenly before slumping face-down on the bar, asleep.

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